Runaway Swan
by 4getfulimaginator
Summary: Captain Swan movie!AU. Reporter Killian Jones ruins his career by writing about "Runaway Bride" Emma Swan, so he decides to seek her out and document the truth about her would-be nuptials in order to redeem himself. When they meet, their antagonism is their only forte. What he never planned on was falling in love with her himself. Based on the romantic comedy Runaway Bride.
1. The cynic versus the man-eater

**A/N: I love Runaway Bride. It's one of my favorite romantic comedies of all time, and the dynamic between Julia Roberts and Richard Gere is splendid. This is the Tumblr prompt from **_JustWriterBritt _**that developed a fleeting idea into a full-fledged fantasy****:** _A reporter, Killian Jones, writes an article about the Runaway Bride, Emma Swan, from the small town of Storybrooke. Apparently she's run out on 3 grooms and is about to run out on number 4. Emma finds out about the article and after writing a letter to the editor, Milah / Belle Gold, gets him fired for not checking his facts. Disgraced, Killian goes to Storybrooke in order to redeem himself, only to fall in love with the subject of his article. Emma is disconcerted when he reads her far too well._

**Just so you know, I posted this story before and then deleted it because I felt it was inadequate. I admit, I've never done a movie AU before, and while Captain Swan and this film may intermingle pretty well, I make no promises about my interpretation of either. I can only try my best to do justice to OUAT while pushing forward the movie's main theme: you have to learn to love yourself first before you can fall in love with someone else ― and from what the creators of the show have said, Emma's journey is about finding herself. **

**Hopefully, by the time I've finished this fic, I will not have disappointed anyone ****― I apologize in advance if that does happen**. Thank you, always, for reading my work and taking a chance on me. I don't believe in myself at all. But if _**you**_** believe in my stories...what more can a writer ask for?**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

PART ONE – THE CYNIC VERSUS THE MAN-EATER

* * *

When his car stopped short in the middle of the dingy town, engine clanking pitifully before giving up on its life with a dismal hiss and huff, Killian Jones swore under his breath. _Quite_ colorfully. He cursed the very second he had passed the town limits, bloody country fields and forests surrounding him all the bloody way.

It was because of _her_ ― _all because of her_.

_She_ was the reason he was currently job-less, car-less, and _walking_ down what was probably the only main street in all of Storybrooke.

That damn, bloody _shrew_ of a woman.

* * *

Milah had literally picked his bones apart after that article. And goddamn it, something deep in the marrow of his bones ― perhaps a writer's natural instinct? ― had ticked out in warning, cautioning him not to rely on some mad, wearing-a-hat-in-the-middle-of-summer _drunk_ in a bar. Well, at least not for a reliable source for an article in the New York Times.

But, like a bloody damn fool, he had. The hurt lodged deep in his blood and bile, biting back at the atrocities he had suffered at the hands of the fickle female kind, had decided for him. Seeing Milah so happy with Robert Gold again, their nauseatingly perfect relationship thrust in front of his face every time he strode into the office to report daily for work...

Absolutely _nauseating_.

It stank vilely to still hold a torch for your ex-wife ― who also happened to be your boss and a hell of an editor.

Still, reading glasses fixed on the bridge of his nose, pen in hand, typewriter by his side, tablet in its case inside his messenger bag, Killian Jones would quietly simmer inside his cubicle, typing or scribbling away (depending on his mood), growling under his breath when interrupted untimely during a certain spark of inspiration.

Bloody hell, who was he kidding? He hadn't been truly inspired by _anything_ since before Liam died. Hah, if only dear Mom and Dad could see him now, writing nonsense for a boring column in the world's most intrepid newspaper.

They would have mutual heart attacks on the spot. Or at the very least, casual strokes.

Liam, on the other hand, would have been proud of Killian no matter what he had published. That was his best, older brother (_only_ brother), always looking out for him.

But he was gone. Buried. And decayed, if nature had anything to say about it. For someone who had spent most of his life at sea, Liam had requested he be put in a land grave, so their grieving parents ― and little brother ― could always find him.

Finishing journalism school, getting his degree in English, landing a gig at the New York Times...those all were dreams come true for Killian. He still had the first two, but the last one had been flushed down the toilet just because an annoying blonde with striking commitment issues, a flair for defiance, and the tongue of a harpy _had_ to contact the bloody editor of the entire paper and submit a formal complaint.

_Even if her reply was pretty damn snippy, it was also pretty damn good, even by his standards. _Though he'd never admit that to anyone. Emma Swan emitted sparks through her words, caustic and sarcastic and bitter and _bloody brilliant_.

It had made him even more depressed, lonely and alone in his empty apartment with only his cat as a companion, that someone so inexperienced had more talent and _life_ than he did, a veteran of the art of writing with years of practice under his belt.

Milah had said her cause for a retraction was utterly justified, legally and morally, and that Miss Swan was within her rights to sue both Jones and the company. So, in accordance, the company had fired him, sent a letter of apology to the lass, and cleaned up their shoddy mess within a fortnight.

Oh, the glory of typeset print. _Journalism rule #1: When you fabricate your facts, you get fired._

Killian had tried blaming Jefferson for his tipsy story, where the man blamed humanity and Emma Swan for his latent splurge in alcohol and a sparse bed. A bit of an idiot, really, and a typical wanker when he spoke despairingly of his failures.

But of course, Killian Jones himself was fully responsible for the misogynistic approach of his column, not some flailing low-life who knew nothing about women.

Aye, Jones knew _everything_ about that treacherous species.

Perhaps the monotony of his assignment had been his channel for revenge, his way of getting even with the one woman he had fallen in love with, _married_, and then divorced ― only to see her marry her former boyfriend and live _happily ever after_ with him and his son.

_Bloody fucking perfect_, it was.

Ah, Robert wasn't that bad of a man. In fact, in another life, they could have been friends, both clever and cunning and having a way with words. The man was a bloody genius at times, calming the storm that was Milah while producing enough vibrant imagery and style in the imagination department to keep the juices running in the _multi_-story high skyscraper.

This was all Gold's damn idea. Seek out the truth, document it, write a real article based on first-hand and second-hand knowledge, and then publish it. And get his job back.

_Vindication._

Such a thrilling four-syllable word.

Killian hadn't signed up for this crap when he had glanced at the faded photograph in Jefferson's hand, a stunning blonde siren grinning at him with mischief and seduction in her stare at the camera. He hadn't signed up for chasing one ridiculous story about a village-like town, when some of the roads were still dirt.

He must have been drunk when he thought that the notion of a runaway bride was appealing material for a rant about women's infidelity and caprice. His mistake, as Milah had so charmingly pointed out, was putting that diatribe on the secondary pages of one of the world's most respected publications.

* * *

It was with a heavy heart that Killian put on his shades, abandoned his car, and searched for a local car shop, praying that word of his humiliation wouldn't travel "down the grapevine" and reach the ears of Miss I-Almost-Got-Married-Three-Times before he had caught a glimpse of her.

_Damn wench._

* * *

Those anger management classes had been such a good choice when he'd had weeks of vacation and nothing to do. Such helpful backup.

Because his introduction to the infamous Emma Swan had been not quite up to his expectations, and he was currently having a spot of trouble handling the aftermath, though he'd never pictured a warm reception.

_Scratch that._ It had been a bloody catastrophe.

Though the car mechanic had been downright affable ― giving Killian an affordable estimate, pointing out the local attractions, recommending the only hotel in town, mentioning the names of the folk in high places just so Killian would know exactly whom to complain to if he ended up murdered in his bed ― the most interesting tidbit Killian had gleaned from the man was that he, of all people, was Emma's first groom-to-be. Delightful bloke, that Neal Cassidy. He even told Killian which shop Emma worked in and what kind of vehicle she drove.

That was how he had found himself staring at a hardware store, which looked decent enough, hours posted in black and white and a second-grade exterior. Then the sign "I'll be back soon ― in It's a Fairy Tale Salon" registered in his mind's eye, and he had to hold back more than one snigger at the thought of Emma the man-eater being a "handyman" and a beauty queen to boot.

When he'd entered the salon, her best friend Mary Margaret had taken charge of the conversation, a sort of regal air about her as she'd had the nerve to interrogate him for asking about Swan, even deducing that he was a reporter from one look at his shoes. _Thank God he'd packed two other, different pairs that didn't sport tassels._ With a pixie haircut and pale complexion, Mary could be the spitting image of Snow White, loyal to a fault and as fierce as a warrior under that dainty, semi-polite attitude when she'd nicknamed Killian Jones "an asshole" without realizing it was he who was responsible for Swan's national popularity right now. At the time, he'd withheld his name, hoping it would work well enough to serve his purpose.

And no one had recognized him at first, which was surprising. He'd imagined they'd have a poster cut-out of him with his cardboard head fixed on a spike.

Of course, before the woman had gotten around to saying anything important, the rest of Emma's girly group just had to flock over to him and pass their names and information: Ruby Red Lucas, a regular flirt of a girl who was eyeing him the way children gaped at candy as she held onto his hand for quite too long, and Widow Lucas, who seemed utterly bored with her granddaughter's wolfish antics. They were both getting manicures and pedicures ― which they'd described in _great detail_ ― and as soon as he'd worked up enough courage to state that he was writing an article about Emma Swan, they'd all started throwing facts and dates and "how the New York Times had screwed up" at him.

Emma Swan was currently engaged to groom number four, the high school sports teacher. He had tried hard not to laugh aloud at that. The wedding was in two weeks, and she was―

_Beautiful_ was all he could think when she'd risen up from underneath the swivel chair she'd been fixing, silently listening to her social circle gabble on and on about her as if she weren't there, until she was ready to interrupt them. _Or perhaps that had been the point. _Nevertheless, he'd been quite cross with himself, hating his body's stupid reaction to the vision before him. Golden curls askew and grease on her shirt, she still was just as fatally attractive as Jefferson had said, green eyes glaring at him for a moment before the brightness faded and dulled. _A pity ― he did so love a challenge._

Oh, how he would miss his naïve, primitive appreciation of her appearance minutes later after the little spitfire had tricked him into allowing Mary Margaret to dye his hair lurid rainbow colors, revealing her deception at the very end of the process ― that she had known who he really was all along, fed him an interview full of false answers, and deliberately destroyed his dark locks so he could be the laughingstock of the town. _Bloody, bloody hell._

He hadn't been the least bit ashamed to duck his tail between his legs and walk out the door, buying a hat from a kid named Henry for five bucks and then searching for the nearest drugstore, thoroughly livid and more convinced that ever that Emma Swan was a goddamned, man-hating viper.

"The drugstore's that way, Mr. Jones," advised a very familiar voice. Smirking at him, Emma Swan slowly put on her sunglasses while smugly crossing her arms over her chest. _Oh, so she thought she'd won the bloody war, did she? _

Fuming inside, Killian spat out, "Good for you ― I can count the number of people who've bested me on one hand."

Her eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips. "Did you come here with the sole intention of ruining my life more? Because you already accomplished that with your damn flipping article, so you'd be wasting your time."

He rolled his eyes, his arms dropping at his sides. "God, woman ― I came here for _vindication_, not to fulfill your self-centered fantasies." Daring to approach her at a closer range, he sneered, "You may have gotten me fired, lass, but I _know_ that I'm right about you. You're a true androgynist, chewing up your many admirers and then spitting them out, aye?" He leaned into her personal space until he was certain he was making her uncomfortable. "Driving men crazy and then tossing them to the side is your cup of tea, love. And I aim to prove that. The right way. You're going to do that to this poor schmuck number four ― you're going to run again ― and I'm going to be here when you do."

She actually had the nerve to blow raspberry at him, snorting loudly. "Good luck with that. Anyway, I'd love to stay and chat, but unlike you, I still have my job..." Gracing him with a _fuck you_ smile, she lazily strolled down the street, her lithe figure outlined even in the baggy pants and t-shirt she was wearing. One guy on a bike nearly collided into the nearest post when she mockingly swayed her hips.

Killian groaned, pulling the bucket hat even further down on his head. First stop: strong shampoo ― and a long shower in that damn hotel. Second stop...

A grin struck his lips, widening until it became quite infectious, following his train of thought with malicious intent.

Oh, Swan may have won this battle, but as for the next one...

She wouldn't know what had hit her. _Bulls-eye._

* * *

"_You invited him to stay for dinner?_" Emma shrieked in a half-whisper.

Graham grabbed her shoulders and rubbed them soothingly. "It was the polite thing to do, sweetheart ― the man truly wants to make amends by understanding the full story ― _your_ story." Then he ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. "Besides...your dad's really taken a shine to him."

From his hiding place behind the kitchen wall, Killian smirked, tiptoeing as inconspicuously as possible back into the living room, where Emma Swan's father was sampling a second glass of the wine he'd thought to bring along with his rife apologies.

George had bought it all, hook, line, and sinker. He'd invited Killian into his home, introduced him to Cora, Emma's adoptive grandmother, and even made fun of his own daughter, loud and clear.

Well, _adopted_ daughter. Turned out he and his late wife never could have children, and they'd taken in Emma Swan when she was ten. Ever since then, Emma's boy troubles had manifested themselves early...starting with her high school sweetheart and "partner-in-crime," Neal. After she graduated with top honors, she'd been accepted into a high profile college of interior design. What Killian couldn't figure out was why she came back to some bumbling village in the middle of Maine to work in her father's store when her post-secondary eduction had been, according to her family, thriving and exemplary.

As for Graham Humbert, "poor schmuck number four"... He didn't sound like that bad of a man ― when he didn't sound like such a clueless _idiot_. "I'm taking Emma trekking up Kilimanjaro for our honeymoon," he announced proudly, pounding with the rest of them in unison at the crabs they were eating.

When Killian's mallet flew out of his grasp, it nearly hit Graham's dog, Wolf. _Such a creative bloke_, he'd told himself as he bent down to retrieve the small wooden tool. "How romantic," he drawled out instead, letting his tone be purposely sarcastic.

Emma heard it immediately, giving him a look of reproach. "I think it is," she snapped, giving Graham a sweet, loving smile before leaning in to kiss him on the mouth.

Internally, Killian gagged. "Oh yes ― nothing more romantic than fending off lions, trudging up ice, and dealing with hoards of mosquitoes, not to mention sharing your wedding bed with a bunch of natives in the same tent."

George was guffawing so hard, he nearly spit out everything he was chewing. Cora, on the other hand, just gave him a cold, assessing smile before returning to her slow consumption of her meal. Graham acted like he didn't hear Killian's retort at all, kissing his fiancé back with too much vigor for the dinner table. _Coward_.

Recovering, Emma's father commented, "It's a wonder I've been able to pay for so many weddings, actually. Emma may not be Storybrooke's longest running joke, but she is certainly the fastest." No one joined in when he chuckled at his own jest. "I even still have the last wedding cake in the freezer."

"Well, you're not paying for this one," Emma interrupted, her hands clenched into fists. Graham squeezed one of them sympathetically, but she didn't relax her stance. "This one's on me."

The glimmer of tension Killian noticed between the two was enough reason for him to make his excuses while he got up from his seat, retreating to the living room. _And he thought his family had had problems._

Fortunately, he recalled a remark George had made when he was asking for details about all three weddings. _You can see them for yourself ― she's got the whole train wreck on tape_, the man had revealed, indicating one videocassette hidden on the side of the television.

_Bingo_, Killian whispered to himself, adeptly slipping the tape into his messenger bag. _Now we're bloody getting somewhere. _There was nothing Killian loved more than the thrill of a story.

* * *

After staying up half the night to watch each short video of the bloody weddings again and again, amusing as they were, his compass for putting this shoddy piece together finally had a definite direction. So when he woke up with the dawn, it was to the bakery he went, eager for some classic breakfast.

No more dawdling and moaning and sitting around. He had real work to do today.

* * *

Emma Swan really hated Killian Jones. Really, _really_ hated him. Seriously, if she could impale him on the end of a sword right now with the promise of not going to jail afterward, she would do it. Then Ruby had eviscerated that lovely dream by slyly suggesting that a real woman ought to reverse that situation by impaling herself on what that "damn sexy bite of man" had to offer.

The very image had made Emma sick to her stomach, and she had abruptly hung up the phone on her friend without another word. Instead, worried about what steps he would take next to blacken her reputation, she had barely managed to shower in the morning and put on some clothes before she was racing out the door to track him down.

And track him down she did. God, it was ten times worse than she thought.

The manipulative bastard was laying down his charm (whatever the hell that _really_ was) thickly and surely, winning hearts and smiles wherever he went. It didn't matter if he was moderately good-looking ― _moderately_ ― or that he had a talent for twisting words to his own benefit. In less than eight hours, he'd visited the bakery, where Ruby was waiting for him on bated breath with cinnamon rolls and extra fresh coffee and a mega-watt smile that screamed "call me". He'd made snide comments about the decorations for Emma's wedding cake, smirked in her face, and vowed that he wasn't about to follow her about town. With one raised eyebrow as he'd breezed out the door, it was obvious he had plans.

She made it her business to find out what he was up to.

Next was the school grounds, where Graham had not only given him a team t-shirt and a full-blown discussion of her virtues ― he'd also invited her mortal enemy to her wedding. _Great going_, she'd groaned inwardly when her fiancé had drawn her into a hug before giving her a ride atop his shoulders. Killian was already long gone by then, no doubt laughing his heart out at her mortification and embarrassment.

The idea of Walsh finding his vocation in God after swapping saliva with her was the most ridiculous thing ever, in Emma's eyes. Jones was nowhere to be seen when she stopped by the only Catholic Church in town, sneaking into the confessional in an attempt to get some much-needed counsel from her second fiancé about her dreams of vengeance concerning one roguish ex-reporter. Instead, he had patronized her, as all priests and minsters and "men of God" were apt to do, and she'd called him out on it. The result wasn't so pleasant, and it had taken some effort to get the red-faced pastor to calm down. However, after squeezing as much information from him as she could, they'd managed to make peace again, and she'd caught a glimpse of the kind-hearted, quiet man she once was supposed to marry. _Then the feeling was gone._ Well, that is, after he had managed to wrangle an apology and a promise out of her that she'd never do something like this ― taking advantage of his religious services ― again.

However, watching Killian have buddy-to-buddy time with Neal in person, chortling and joking around as if they'd known each other for years... Emma had finally seen red. Especially on viewing the photo Killian was waving about gleefully, admiring what he called "tantamount to public indecency." Hey, she had been young and drunk and stupid when she'd stripped in front of a traffic jam of people on the highway, all wanting to go to the same rock concert as she and her friends had. It wasn't the world's greatest sin.

But worse yet, Jones had made a mountain out of a molehill and refused to return the evidence to her unless she revealed whether or not she still had her rose tattoo ― the one Neal had practically forced her to get when they were dating. Neal bet she still had it, of course ― because _he_ did.

The look on his face when she revealed it was a stick-on and not the real thing, muttering some lame excuse about a fear of needles, tore her into pieces. Killian Jones, however, had acted like a kid on Christmas Day, happily dropping the photo down to her while he reveled in the mournful tune her first lover was playing on his electric guitar. She had argued with Neal, pleading with him that he was happy with Tamara now and that was all in the past. He hadn't listened. To add insult to injury, Killian had stroked the poor guy's ego by commiserating with him on the "fickleness of women."

In the end, unable to cheer Neal up, she had left in a huff, going back to the store in defeat.

Though Mary Margaret had insisted she not take all of this so seriously, soothing her frustration with rational arguments, Emma had been _very_ bothered that Killian was literally befriending everyone in town, even going so far to give a light concert with Mayor Regina Mills and Sheriff David Nolan (Mary Margaret's husband) outside the hotel. When she had passed by in her old Ford pickup, scrutinizing the devil himself with unspeakable fury, he'd only smirked mischievously at her as he kept on strumming his guitar, not faltering once as the beat of the trio's song went on without fail, entertaining the countless number of residents who stopped by to have a listen. It hurt even more when her best friend herself said how amazing it was that Killian was such a great people person, making friends so easily ― and that he played pretty well, too.

The whole niggling experience had made her realize that maybe she needed to rethink her strategy for this. There had to be something she could use to her advantage, some ploy she could try that would break the asshole's determination completely by negating his confidence. Who the hell was he to judge her, some city boy who'd never really worked a day in his life, some pampered moron who had nothing better to do than to nitpick at her mistakes and not analyze his own?

Well, she still had the upper hand yet. Killian Jones could believe himself to be the greatest smart aleck of them all, classy and cool when he put on his reading glasses and trapped people with their own words, but she was Emma Swan.

No good-for-nothing _pirate_ who stole information, discredited his sources, scribbled out some fucking tirade, and then turned her own family against her was going to win this fight.

He was going to hell. And she was going to be the one to drag him down.

* * *

**A/N: This fic's going to be three parts. To be clear, David and Mary Margaret are Emma's friends, not her birth parents, and no, I will not be adhering to the plotline of the film like glue sticks to paper. There will be changes, and I will make an effort to be original while being inspired by both of the sources I'm following. Lastly, this story's supposed to be **_**fun**_**. Please don't hate me if I choose to tell it differently from how you've imagined. **

**Reviews are always heavenly.**


	2. We started a war

**A/N: This ficlet will be broken into four parts: the third part is called "Parley", and the fourth will be entitled "Final Victory." This chapter has more insight about Killian and Emma, and I'll hope you'll bear with me until we get to the next chapter, which will have more..._exciting_ content.**

**Thank you for your reviews and your following. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

PART TWO ― WE STARTED A WAR

* * *

One hand crept out of a crevice in the downy comforter, searching frantically. When fingers reached the cold surface of the metal ice bucket, they immediately crawled upward and sank inside, eliciting a groan from their owner.

Then they wrapped themselves around the glass bottle residing among the melting ice cubes, and upon a hefty shake that ensured how empty said bottle was, it was tossed onto the carpeted floor. A disheveled tuft of dark hair peeked out from the rumpled covers, and bit by bit, a head emerged, gasping for air.

_Damn it_.

Killian never forgot what it was like to be hungover, but still, he couldn't stop indulging himself. That didn't prevent the headaches, the nausea, the throbbing sinuses, and _bloody damnation_, a revulsion toward light and sound for the next twenty-four hours. What he needed was hot soup and Tylenol and lots of ice and his cat―

Bolting upright, his surroundings registered in his rum-soaked mind very slowly. The conclusion it reached made him bury his face in the ice bucket, heedless of the probability that the damned thing wasn't washed since its placement in this hotel room.

Cold water was a good wake-up call, he had to say. Liam had taught him that...

The thought took his breath away quicker than the frigid water did, and his held breaths came out together in a rush. It took him a while to disengage himself from the plethora of sheets twisting about his limbs, and when he did manage to put his feet on solid wooden floor, he glanced at the painting on the wall across...and saw double.

Damn, he'd had too much to drink last night. Couldn't bloody control his own primitive urges, could he? Always had to play with fire when he didn't know how to master the burn of his wounds and quell the hurt?

Sighing, he put on his boxers, which were lying on the floor, and walked toward the small desk set in the corner. There, his laptop waited, asleep, ready for him to type down "the greatest defamatory piece of shit" ― as Miss Swan would so nicely phrase it.

_Bloody hell, what the bloody heck was he doing? Liam would be very ashamed of him, no doubt in his mind. _

His older brother had been the one to yank the old Nintendo set out of his hands and tell him to _get his eyes off the video gamer screen and move his lazy bottom into the library and read a book, for Christ's sake_. He had been the one to support his ardent reading habits when his parents had been trying to tear them apart during their divorce, always arguing in plain sight and driving figurative knives into Killian's heart when he heard the hatred in their voices, saw the way they acted and held each other in contempt. It was Liam who had spoken with the headmaster of the private prep school they attended and persuade a very stubborn, restrictive man to let a depressed, anxious thirteen-year-old boy challenge his English teacher and enroll in a very advanced literature course, where he sat among gits who already had their driving licenses.

He took Killian sailing for the first time when he was fourteen and taught him how to maneuver a boat ― _God, he'd never forget that afternoon they'd almost crashed into a nearby reef because the helm went spinning and the rudder went crazy_. They always played make-believe whist on Sundays when Liam was off work, each of them pretending to have a partner to share trick secrets with and making the most obscene faces at blank air.

_Glory and honor to the Jones boys!_, his brother would shout out the door every morning, his particular, personal way of saying good-bye always striking at Killian's heart and making it swell to twice its normal size. Liam had been his best mate. They'd done everything together. And when he had made his final exit...

_The last bit of good in his life was gone._

Who knew where his mother was, probably cruising along the Riviera and having galas and fashion shows every other week when she'd stop by in Paris. As for his dear father...the old fucking rotter was lucky not to get thrown into gaol after all those years of hidden income tax evasion. He was probably hiding out somewhere in South America, surrounded by his hidden savings and caring less that one of his offspring was dead and the other was all alone.

As a writer, Killian didn't get to track fugitives of the law. He might have been a reporter, but it only got him so far. Press passes and solid databases of information weren't that helpful when a man was trying to find out just what had happened to his parent. After three years of solid searching and bold inquiries, he'd given up. _Dear ol' Dad ceased to matter after he had pushed that pain into the void that was his memory._

In Liam's last letter, he'd said that "a man who doesn't fight for what he wants deserves what he gets." Killian still wasn't sure where he'd pulled that motto, but it had resonated within him from then on, a constant reminder that Liam was encouraging him to really live his life and make what he wanted a reality.

From behind reading glasses, a steady set of hands, and dextrous fingers, he'd done what he could. Most people would call his existence exemplary and satisfying.

What a downright arse he was that he'd lowered himself to this.

Yes, he had been desperate when he'd written that damn article about Swan, worrying that one day his work would be considered less than worthy and he'd lost his job. That he'd be stripped of the one thing left that was important to him, labeled a coward and unimaginative old fool who was behind the times and too immersed in writing of old, when authors seemed to value good language and heavy topics over popularity.

Back then, words had some of the writer's soul sprinkled on them, and characters were alive because not only they were a part of history ― they carried the mark of their creator and they were individuals whose morals and ethics came from the times.

But most of all, literature was a new trend, something many were skeptical about and few could afford. Knowledge was bared to the ignorant and financially unfortunate, but as the newspaper's influence became massive, more and more people were able to experience the joys of reading, the pleasures of finding stories hidden among saddening and cruel headlines. Libraries grew, and what was once obscured was pushed into the spotlight.

Storytelling started through word of mouth. But the printed word had changed it all, and for that, the newspaper was partially responsible. He respected that greatly.

Though Liam had pressed him to major in literature instead of journalism, Killian had been too afraid. When you reported facts and data, it was all too easy to keep your true face hidden from the crowd. Literature, on the other hand...well, he probably would have had to be some bloody professor at university, teaching hormone-distracted twits with high egos about the wonder of Shakespeare's expansion of English vocabulary or the lesser known excellence of Tolstoy's lengthy, plaintive novels. _He just didn't know how to be a teacher_, he'd told his brother. _As as for writing fiction of his own...too bloody complicated._

_No, it was much safer to be a journalist. Writing non-fiction in other genres and even daring to scribble down a story was too dangerous, too close to the heart. He'd never get away with closing off himself and keeping his dearest hopes and desires, as well as his deepest regrets and darkest fears, from entering his books. There would simply be too much of _him_ in them._

* * *

As he stayed seated before his computer, searching for his eyeglasses and then mechanically putting them on, he mulled over the reasons why he couldn't let go of this ridiculous _vendetta_ he and Swan had. Ah yes...there it was. He was right, she was wrong. The end of it. But no, he had to prove himself ― and by God, he was going to make her admit how right he had been about her. He had to win this, for his career's sake.

But bloody hell, this was _absurd_. He was a grown man, writing about a lass who couldn't make up her mind whom to _marry_. Or whatever the truth really was underneath that tale. He wasn't some paparazzi freak who needed a blown cover story to get ahead in the game. And Emma Swan was certainly no celebrity. Damn it, he had only wanted to do his job and complete his column for the week ― and look at how well he had handled that, foolish _idiot_ that he was. Lost his gig entirely, saw his good name utterly debauched in the world of writing, and...

His migraine throbbed even more, and he had to suppress another bout of nausea that threatened to send him to the toilet for a vomiting marathon. _Blame it on the rum. Blame it all on the goddamn rum._

How Liam would laugh if he could see him now. Fine. He could take laughter. What he wouldn't be able to swallow down was if his brother would just give an unhappy look and frown, his eyes speaking louder than his mouth about _failure_ and _disappointment_ and―

His parents had never really argued over his choices, but of course, if it would benefit them... God only knows what they'd say about him now. For one thing, his mom was still cross that he'd refused to be a concert pianist whom she could drag halfway over the country, on display like one of her human dolls, bringing her more fame and prestige. _As if she didn't have bloody enough already._ For him, the piano was Liam's idea. It began as a quiet pastime, him tinkering with the keys ― though when things had gotten more serious, Killian had been forced to meet with his music teacher, practically unwilling to budge from the house. Under the bribe of ice cream in waffle cones afterwards, Liam had managed to get him to yield. And what a wise decision that had been, for the instrument quickly became another of his passions, almost equal to writing itself. He had played sonatas and concertos and minuets and all varieties of musical compositions ― but only for himself and his brother. It was simple, really: he loved the sound of the piano, and he loved his brother. Both made him monstrously happy.

However, it would just be too bloody excruciating to perform in public, like a monkey on puppet strings. No, this art had been reserved for himself, for the joy of it..and for Liam, who was, like most of the time, responsible for inspiring the best in him.

Perhaps that was why this falling out with the Times had occurred. Perhaps that was why he was currently skulking through a shoddy town like this, trailing after the bread crumbs of some insignificant person's romantic history. This was how much he had shamed himself.

_Why didn't he agree to go off with Liam on his adventures around the world and take a chance on everything? Why did he have to be so bloody insecure?_

He sighed, resting his face back in his hands when he was assured his eyesight was slowly getting better and his headache was slightly mollified. Ultimately, the way every aspect of his life had turned out was all his own damn fault. He had no one to blame but himself for his mistakes and vices.

Oh, and he did indeed have no one now. That was true too.

Meeting Milah had changed his life. She was once the brightest star in his universe, and he had adored her. Such a shame...that what they had had together blinked out and died like all his other relationships had. Damn _stupid_, _stubborn_ woman. Their story was a goddamn disaster in the making.

Well... He loved, and he lost. "Take _that_ for a motto, brother," he muttered to the empty room. A fresh wave of self-loathing made his stomach churn and then twist into knots.

Forget about writing today. Forget about getting his rear into gear and finding out more dirt on Emma Swan.

He was staying put in the damn fluffy bed that was paid for out of his meager severance pay.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he recalled that this hotel didn't have room service and he was most certainly out of sustenance, the tap water from the bathroom sink the only exception. _Additionally_, his inner demon chided, _he was out of rum_.

Goddamn it. He needed to get to the bloody store ― and fast.

* * *

It was just milk and eggs and bacon. George always asked for the same combination ― and Emma always reminded him, again and again, that high cholesterol was going to get him killed. That, and the insane amount of whiskey he consumed behind her back. _His house, his rules_, he argued.

Cora knew it was an on-going problem ― that it had been one, ever since Laura had passed on, her heart not strong enough to make it any more years. George had been a decidedly warmer person when she was still alive...even after their miscreant of an only son, James, had gotten himself killed in a bar fight at the age of twenty. Thank God he had already been gone for several years from the house before she had been adopted by the mournful couple, her memories of past foster parents and foster siblings none too pleasant.

Fucking understatement of her lifetime, really.

But she could handle troublesome families, alright. Oh yes, she was best friends with trouble. All her days up till now, it had followed her, like her shadow. And she still didn't know how to be rid of it.

When she was eight, she was taken to the zoo for her birthday by one of her better foster parents. That worn-out picture of her, nose pressed up against the glass display window between her and the chameleon hanging on a bare branch in his cage (her ice cream cone dripping onto her shoes and _she had cared less_), her giggling when his skin changed color ― _like magic_ ― to blend in with his environment... She'd held on to that all her life.

Well, the photo itself was still stored in the one leather-bound album she owned, safely wedged among a crowd of books in her room. This particular memory, on the other hand, had played a greater, deeper part in the whole aspect of _being wanted_ and _wanting_.

Some would say she should thank her lucky stars for being accepted at all into anyone's home. Contrary to what charities advocated and celebrities spouted to news channels and the rest of the media, orphans were viewed today much in the same way as they had been in Charles Dickens' time. _Dickens...she really loved his books. Which was surprising ― at least, that what "Grammy" Cora always said. Who would expect a street rat to love classics like those, right? But "Oliver Twist" and "Bleak House"...those two were on her bedroom bookshelf, because she couldn't resist the familiarity of two lead characters who only wanted one thing: to belong somewhere, with someone..._

"Pardon me, lass...my vision's a bit blurry, so I didn't see you there till now."

The brunt of his blow to her shoulder registered in her mind _after_ his voice did. _Dear Lord... _ She groaned, bracing herself. _Could her morning not get any worse?_

* * *

"You." He sounded so damn shocked. Hoarse, dry...and shocked. "What are you doing here?"

_The nerve of the bastard._ She crossed her arms over her chest ― well, as much as she could, being barricaded behind the shopping cart. "If that tiny brain of yours remembers, _Jones_, I happen to _live_ in this town."

Emma expected that remark to trigger some badly constructed quip from Jones, but he didn't take the bait at all. Instead, he was swaying on his feet, nearly teetering to and fro, for once _not_ wearing a two-piece and looking atypically _slack_. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Oh," he finally replied, accent deepening, a loud hiccup escaping his lips two seconds later. "No, I meant...what are you doing _here_, at this godforsaken hour?"

Squinting, she stared really hard at his face, making a note of his bloodshot eyes, mussed hair, and overall, glazed look. Then some cool breeze from a nearby open refrigerator door pushed a waft of his alcohol-infused breath toward her nose. "_I_ am getting breakfast," she said flatly. "And you've been drinking. A lot."

He waved away her observation in an instant. "Well, I'm a responsible adult, so no worries." Coherent words and quick reactions meant he wasn't that inebriated, but he wasn't entirely sober, either. Otherwise, he'd have chewed her head off by now with some scathing remark about her choice of clothes ― skimpy pajama pants, loose tank top, and worn out flats. Not to mention that her hair was easily a lion's mane and she wasn't wearing any make-up.

She smiled sweetly at him. "I was worried about the floor ― see, I know Grumpy, and he owns this store. I'm one of his regular customers, so I don't want your vomit to be all over my shoes when you throw up and then have to pay for damages."

His expression suddenly morphed in the oddest way. And then, stepping past her own grogginess, she realized what the change really was. She saw it in her reflection late, late at night, when the door to her bedroom was locked and no one could peek in on what the town's resident "bad girl" was up to. She knew it so well.

Killian Jones, her worst enemy, was currently, undeniably vulnerable. Every few seconds, his facial features were twitching desperately in an attempt not to crumple, and he didn't even want to glance at her for fear she would see the truth of his behavior in that blue gaze of his. _Ha, he was such an open book for being a reporter._

Now was the ideal time to strike. If she was correct ― _in vino veritas_ ― she could take advantage of his drunken state and wrangle some scandalous secrets from him, something she could use against him later in order to drive him away. She could get even. She could take a picture of him with her phone and then post it online so his infamy would go viral. So he would finally feel what she felt when she saw her photo in the paper, spread wide next to her failures for all the world to see. It seemed that rational thought couldn't get through to him, that he needed to experience that kind of humiliation himself in order to fully understand why she wanted to tear him into pieces.

But then, he turned and looked at her. Really, really _looked_ at her. What made her throat tighten was the lack of venom there, in those wide, agonized eyes... The anguish ― that she recognized immediately. And she couldn't understand why a twinge of sympathy visited her when his raw scrutiny dissolved into a sad stare, one that saw right through her.

For the first time since they had crossed paths, she felt speechless, like she was intruding on something private. She wanted to tell him nasty things, to sting him with verbal barbs, to wreck his pride with level-headed sarcasm. How could she, though?

It was a classic situation: David had been seeing Mary Margaret behind his then-wife Kathryn's back, and when the truth about their relationship came out, her best friend was called "a hoe" and "a slut" in public. Emma had tried hard not to cry along with Mary Margaret when they came back from the salon to find her white car covered in black paint, the phrase "you're a whore" applied in bold print. When Emma came across David the next day, she wanted to slug the hell out of him for putting the sweetest woman in the world through so much heartbreak and disgrace. The man had literally broken down right in front of her after her accusations, begging for forgiveness and a chance for redemption and offering to publish a confession of guilt in the local newspaper so that the townsfolk would stop gossiping about Mary Margaret as if it were her fault he didn't have the strength to make a choice between his high school sweetheart and her. _Poor Sheriff David_, she had taunted him at the time, feeling angry for her friend.

Even for a couple whose love appeared to be more true than that in fairy tales, they had had a long, difficult journey to travel before they reached their reconciliation and resulting happiness. However, it was look on David's face that Emma remembered, tormented and stricken and haunted and _guilty_. Although the world had always punched back whenever she had suffered, she believed to some degree in second chances and compassion and mercy.

In her honest opinion, Jones here didn't deserve any of the three, but...it was five in the morning, she was tired, and he was totally wasted. A victory won over him now would be depressingly inadequate, sorry to say.

Reaching around him as he stood there hunching his shoulders and running one hand through his hair absently as he gazed off into space, she plucked a bottle of Gatorade off the shelf and nearly slammed it into his chest, then ensnaring the two glass bottles she'd spotted in his shopping basket and hiding them behind the macaroni and cheese boxes. "Drink plenty of fluids and get some rest, paper boy ― the last place you ought to be is in the supermarket, buying _beer_. Why, you could suddenly decide to strip and go swimming in the freezer aisle," she snapped, rolling her eyes when he tried to smirk at her ― and _failed_.

"Afraid I'll be too much for you _au naturel_, darling? Or were you planning on joining me for a nightcap, perhaps?" he leered, eyebrows raised high.

"No..." she finished the vowel with a loud pop as distractingly as she could. "Just don't want to subject our emergency services to your _lovely_ self when you get alcohol poisoning." Hey, at least he'd temporarily forgotten about the extra liquor he was about to purchase ― another service done for humanity and the safety of the citizens._ Hah, David would applaud her for that._

"Hmm, that David? The sheriff who asked me to bring red wine to his weekly Thursday night poker game?"

For a moment, she was tempted to clap her hands over her mouth. Did she stupidly say all that _aloud_? "You know what?" she exclaimed, grimacing. "Must have been a different David. Have fun dealing with hangover, _Jones_."

Not bothering to say good-bye ― _they were not friends or anything _― she swiveled her cart around and headed for the cashier, only casting a glance in his direction when she was sure he couldn't ambush her from behind.

In his faded jeans and simple white t-shirt, unkempt and scruffy, he didn't look at all like a high-and-mighty journalist or the womanizing asshole who had no remorse in writing what he wanted, when he wanted ― and who couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.

That diminishing figure in the background of her peripheral vision was the silhouette of a regular man with regular problems. A little bit drunk, more than a little bit lost, and a whole bunch of _pathetic_.

_No_, the little girl inside her whispered, _you forgot something else_.

A lot of _broken_...and more than a lot of _lonely_.

_Just like her._

"Wait, what?" she muttered to herself, quickly loading her items onto the counter. "Did I just let myself feel sorry for _Killian Jones_? Not a chance in hell. Besides, we have absolutely _nothing_ in common. He's a _prick_."

The cashier ― Nova, was it? ― gave her a strange smile and made no comment on her outburst. "Will this be all?"

Graham's loving face flickered into her thoughts. _Graham ― she had Graham, and he loved her. And she loved him. Right? _"Uh, no, actually." She grabbed five sticks of peppermint gum and dropped them next to the bag of peaches. "Can't forget my boyfriend's gum, now can I?"

The girl scanned them, scowling when it took more than one try per stick to get the machine to pick up the code. "Oh? I heard you were engaged."

Emma wanted to slap herself again. _See, just one encounter with Jones, and her senses got depleted._

There wasn't any room for sportsmanship here. She needed to know what he knew about her, and when she did, she was going to beat him at his own game.

It was time to put those special _skills_ Neal taught her to good use.

* * *

On a good day, Killian considered himself a reasonable man ― a man of honor, as Liam had wanted him to be.

Today was not one of those days. Not when a golden-haired harpy was racing through his room with _his_ research and _his_ notes and his goddamn _work_ in her arms, scurrying into the bathroom to evade his wrath after he'd caught her red-handed.

"Come out and we'll talk about this, Swan." Again, he jiggled the doorknob, noticing that the lock could easily be tinkered with.

"Not a chance," came her snarl. By the excessive squeaking noises, it seemed she was trying to slide the window panel up. Trying, but not succeeding. _Yet_.

_Distraction was the best tactic at this point_, he reminded himself, preparing his most persuasive tone while he managed to swipe a credit card from his wallet. "You're afraid to trust me ― to reveal yourself ― but things will go much smoother if you do." Her repeated grunts and refusal to listen to his proposal weren't exactly music to his ears, and the damn lock wasn't opening either. So he started pushing against the door. "After all, breaking and entering is a crime, last time I checked."

"So is libel, _asshole_."

His determination to get through to her, calmly and rationally, evaporated. Instead of quelling his temper, as Liam had taught him to since he was a young lad, he fed his growing rage, recalling _exactly_ why he was here, now, and in this place. _She was the cause. She had gotten him fired._

Calculating where he should stand to gather the right momentum, Killian stepped back. "Fancy that ― you, tampering like a common thief!" he spat out, barreling against the door with a roar. "Swan!"

She was already halfway out the open window, just barely squeezing through the narrow space.

Killian growled, his frustrating mounting. "That's it ― I'm calling the sheriff, Swan!"

"Go ahead! Oh, and can you do me a favor?" Emma flashed him a wicked grin. "Remind David that he's supposed to take care of bar service for my party? It would save me _so_ many hours of endless arguments."

He could only scream her surname, as loudly and angrily as his throat could endure until his voice gave out, growing embarrassed when every other bloody occupant in the damn building also stuck their heads out the windows to see who was the daft moron making their ears bleed off. Climbing down the side of wall like a monkey, wiry arms and strong hands lowering herself down brick by brick, the "Runaway Bride" of the century made her getaway ― but not from her upcoming marriage. Finally, she disappeared from sight, and he was left alone, with his shame and fury churning into an unmanageable, chaotic mess.

Running his hands through his hair, Killian desperately tried to pull himself together, ignoring the laughter outside. Then he hit his head on the windowpane meanwhile. _Bloody fucking woman._

She had just bloody _rifled through_ his room. _With his entire portfolio in tow. _ And how the hell did she get in, in the first place?

_More importantly...what was he going to tell Gold when he called in to check on his progress, with his research now whisked into the hands of the enemy?_

His fervent resolve to unwind shattered in an instant. Grinding his teeth, hands clenched into fists, vision tinted with red and black, he stormed out, slamming the door as he exited. Why bother with the damn lock? If the slag wanted, she'd get in again anyhow, using her charms like a siren on her willing admirers.

_Oh, when he got his hands around the neck of that damn simpering hotel clerk, Anton..._

* * *

**A/N: Reviews are golden. Thank you for reading.**


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